


please write something in your empty word doc

by lostnfound14



Series: freshmen are people too [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, But they're still young and stupid, College AU, F/M, I loved writing this fic, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Panic Attacks, Peter is whipped, Pretty on brand for him gotta say, Soft Peter Parker, and oblivious, hope yall enjoy it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 00:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnfound14/pseuds/lostnfound14
Summary: Peter's decently ashamed of himself and his subconscious says to him, “You’ve been sitting there doing nothing for half an hour. At least writesomethingon that page, it’s killing me.” Peter nods in agreement - wait, what? - and then his head shoots up, looking to his left, and he realizes that a girl is looking at him expectantly, an eyebrow raised, arms sort of crossed over her chest.Um. She’s… pretty. Her hair is frizzy, tied back in a top bun, with some strands covering her left eye. She’s wearing a dark blue sweater and the sleeves are a bit long, covering her hands, making Peter think of the phrasesweater mittens,which is absolutely adorable and Peter is staring at her like a dope and she said something and he needs to answer or else he’s gonna look like a complete idiot -“Um, sorry?”-Or, 5 times Peter and Michelle run into each other accidentally and 1 time it's planned.College AU.





	please write something in your empty word doc

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I'm back! I was writing this fic in the span of time between the end of "hard times" and now, but I was struggling to think of new material. Then I happened upon the idea of a 5+1 fic, and I couldn't get it out of my head, so here's this. Leave kudos and comment with an opinion, observation, or suggestion for a future fic if you so desire! I live for your guys' positive feedback, and could use some help with prompts. Thanks for clicking on this fic! Now, enjoy!

**1.**

Columbia’s great. Really. Peter loves it, loves the feeling of freedom he gets from spending so much time on campus and getting his first taste of adulthood. To tell the truth, he wasn’t very responsible even when he was in high school, so the transition to college was pretty hard. He would never admit it to anybody, but he might have cried a little bit from embarrassment after walking into the wrong lecture hall, and then getting about a hundred withering looks from students and a professor who was _ pissed _ for having his class interrupted.

College was fun until he remembered the “education” part. Now, in November, he’s drowning in papers and problem sets. It’s hard to find a good place to do homework. The restaurants close to campus are always full of students who have the same idea, his dorm is too comfortable, the common room is always full, and… 

The library. _ Wow, great idea, Pete, why didn’t you think of that literally in August? Sometimes, you can be really fucking dumb, you know that? _

So one November afternoon, when the cold air is starting to feel like an outdoor freezer, Peter stuffs his laptop in his backpack, suits up for the cold with a pair of Timberlands, jeans, and a few warm layers that include a woolen sweater and olive green parka. It’s the beginning of snow season, and tonight the campus is being graced with a light flurry. Coupled with the slowly darkening overcast sky, Peter feels like he’s in some Christmas movie. As he walks between the well-groomed hedges to walk to the library that looms in front of him, looking like the Parthenon times two with its beautiful Greek-style columns and truly impressive stature, he feels an odd sense of contentment. Yeah, college is hard, but there are moments like this one where Peter feels like there are some things to be appreciated about it. 

He pushes open one of the underwhelming wooden doors (Peter wouldn’t be lying if he said he expected huge pearly gates or something) and swipes his student ID through the card reader. He stops for a moment, overlooking the tall stacks and absorbing the warm light from the high-hanging chandeliers and warm shaded lamps, momentarily inspecting the students perusing them. They look tired, and rightfully so - finals are coming up and he’s not the only one who’s been studying for hours every night. 

Peter looks for a place where he can settle and finds a nice, comfortable-enough looking couch where he sets up shop, shrugging off his backpack and jacket. He sets them both down between his legs and pulling his laptop out of his bag. He has a Philosophy paper that he needs to finish by tomorrow afternoon, so he needs to get in the zone. 

Feeling like a cliche teenager, Peter pulls up one of those “lofi beats to study to” live streams and sticks his headphones in the jack. Word document: opened. Chillhop: playing. Knuckles: cracked. Crops: watered. Time to get to work. 

Which, of course, means staring at a blank page and scrolling through Instagram the entire time. Peter’s decently ashamed of himself. His subconscious says to him, “You’ve been sitting there doing nothing for half an hour. At least write _ something _on that page, it’s killing me.” Peter nods in agreement - wait, what? - and then his head shoots up, looking to his left. A girl is looking at him expectantly over the top of a book, an eyebrow raised, arms sort of crossed over her chest. 

Um. She’s… pretty. Her hair is frizzy, tied back in a top bun, with some strands covering her left eye. She’s wearing a dark blue sweater, the sleeves of which are a bit long, covering her hands. Peter thinks of the phrase _ sweater mittens, _ which is absolutely adorable and then Peter realizes he's staring at her like a dope and she said something and he needs to answer or else he’s gonna look like a complete idiot - 

“Um, sorry?” He manages, pulling the headphones out of his ears. Damn, he actually really liked the song that was playing. A hint of a smirk plays on her lips, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards slightly, but then it’s gone so fast that he would have missed it if he blinked. But for some reason, he can’t, because he’s enraptured by how _ beautiful _this girl is. 

_ Stop that right now. _

“Don’t apologize to me,” she deadpans, reopening the book he just now notices is closed by her hand that holds her place with a thumb lodged between the pages, and already scanning the page word by word as if he was just some momentary distraction. It stings a little bit. Then she continues, “Apologize to your future self when you’re on the verge of a panic attack tomorrow because present you didn’t get any work done the night before.” 

It’s a jarring reality check. Peter fumbles with his words, mouth hanging open rather dumbly. She’s right, but is it really her place to be talking to him like that? He frowns, still trying to think of some retort, but he comes up with nothing. Instead, he turns back to his laptop, rolls up the sleeves of his sweater, sticks his headphones back in his ears, and starts typing away. He actually gets some decent work done, his only interruptions being sporadic glances at the girl next to him, who must have eyes in the side of her head because every time he looks at her she lifts her right arm to point at his laptop and snap her fingers like he’s a waiter and she’s some classy woman who’s been waiting on her order for forty-five minutes. The feeling makes his cheeks flush and motivates him to go back to his work, but like it’s inevitable, he always goes back to look at her, and she always reacts similarly. 

Eventually, a middle-aged woman comes up to them, still focusing on their respective tasks, telling them politely that the library is now closed and that they should get going. The girl almost puts up a fight, at which Peter smiles in amusement, but he stuffs his laptop back in his bag, puts his jacket on, and walks out of the library. If he turns back to see if she walks out behind him, he won’t tell a soul.

**2.**

The next day, Peter walks into his Philosophy class with a physical copy of his paper, as per the professor’s request, feeling proud of the results of his grueling labor over it. He might have struggled a little bit that morning, but he got it done. He may or may not have looked for motivation in the form of a mental image of the girl from the library watching him type, and it definitely helped him finish when he imagined the look of disappointment on her face every time he paused for whatever reason. 

The point is, he finished his paper. He puts it on the professor’s desk, who eyes him with a neutral look that Peter can’t help but feel small under, then he turns to climb the steps of the lecture hall and find a seat. He freezes when he sees her again. She must have been watching him - which makes him feel something odd in his stomach, which are definitely _ not _ butterflies - because the second he notices her she smiles sardonically and waves. Peter feels a blush creeping up his face, but then he steels himself. He can’t show her just how nervous she makes him, because that would be embarrassing. But why not? He climbs the steps and takes a seat a few spaces away from her, to allow her and himself some personal space, which he hopes she appreciates. He hangs his backpack over his chair and pulls out his laptop, flipping it open to a new Word document for notes. 

She’s the one to break the silence. “So, how’d you fare with that paper, Library Guy?” He looks at her with a confused frown - that was not a very creative nickname - she’s chewing on the cap of her pen, watching him with slight interest. He tries not to blush any more than he already has. At least she isn’t chewing on the actual ink part, because Peter has seen too many pens burst inside people’s mouths, and he’s still not comfortable with the sight. 

“I finished it,” he replies. He can hear the follow-up question before she even asks it, and adds, “No panic attacks needed,” sarcastically flashing her a thumbs-up. She barks out a laugh. To most, he’s sure it wouldn’t be a very attractive sound, but it makes his heart skip a beat. He just really hopes that doesn’t mean cardiac arrest.

“Good for you,” is all she says, opening her own laptop. Then he turns away, and they wait silently for the lecture to start. However, about half an hour into it, Peter can feel his eyes glazing over from absolute and utter boredom. He’s taken some notes, sure, but they’re probably not very good. 

He’s about to nod off to the professor’s droning when he feels someone flick him in the arm. He flinches, whisper-shouts “Ow!” so as not to call attention to himself, then looks to his right, where she’s sitting, continuing to take notes as if she had flicked him with a third arm. Without turning to look at him, she says, “Focus. He said this part will be on the final.” That gets Peter’s attention. He rises back up to sit straight, poised, hands hovering over the keys of his laptop, attention rapt.

_ That was way too fast, _he thinks, but pushes the thought to the back of his mind as he begins to take more notes. This time they’re way more detailed than the ones he had taken up to that point, which, of course, has nothing to do with his small fear of the girl next to him.

**3.**

“So what you’re saying is, you have a crush on this girl,” Ned concludes as they walk through the door of the ShakeShack right across the street from campus. Peter groans, becoming tired of having to tell him the same thing: No, he doesn’t have a crush on her, for God’s sake. “Pete’s sake” would have been a bit on the nose, he realizes as Ned makes the joke.

They’re blasted with heat the second they enter, making Peter literally groan, immediately shrugging off his jacket and draping it over his arm. Ned follows suit. They walk up into the far-too-long line to order the far-too-expensive food. Usually, they wouldn’t go to all the trouble of this unnecessary waiting and spending, but they just finished finals, meaning it’s the beginning of winter break, and they're free from all responsibility for the next month. 

That’s another great thing about college: winter break is ridiculously long. It’s awesome. Peter smiles as he slowly makes his way down the line with Ned, thinking of all the time he’s going to spend with Aunt May (it sounds kind of loser-like when he thinks of it that way, but he loves her and hasn’t seen her since Thanksgiving). They get their order numbers and Peter tells Ned he’ll find a table - a rare occurrence for them due to the popularity of ShakeShack and just how many customers it draws in on a daily basis - so he goes off to look for one. 

Of course, on a day where he deserves to relax, he finds the one person that can make his heart rate double in a matter of seconds, all coherent thought oozing out of his brain by his ears, whenever he sees her. It’s her, again. Of course it is. Peter would rather slink off to a corner and die a quiet death than feel embarrassed in front of her ever again.

Sadly, he can’t just die on command, as much as he wants to. So he sees that she’s taking up a four-person table with nobody to share it with. This slightly bothers Peter, since there’s a counter where people can sit. There are more than a few open seats there, but she chose to occupy a table meant for more people. To her credit, she really makes it seem like it’s _ her _ table: She’s put her bag in the seat next to her and kicked her feet up onto the table, milkshake sitting forgotten next to her Chucks. A rather thick volume is held in front of her face. She’s flipping the pages too fast to be absorbing the words on them. 

Deciding to have a little fun, without any preamble whatsoever, Peter plops himself down in the seat across from her. He waits for some sort of reaction for her with a gleeful smile. Sure enough, the book slowly lowers from her face until he can barely see her squinting eyes and down-turned brows. She regards him like this for a moment before setting the book down in her lap and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Are you gonna tell me what gives you the right to intrude on my privacy like this?” She asks, trying to make her tone as biting as possible. Peter's sure it is, but all he can hear is weak complaining. His smile grows.

“Four seats at this table. You,” he gestures towards her, “are one person. Your bag,” he points at it because pointing at _ people _is rude, “is not a person. Two seats are occupied. Two seats are free. If you don’t mind, my friend and I are going to take the two seats that are left.”

One of her eyebrows quirks upwards. The corresponding corner of her lip follows suit, making her lazily smirk at him when she asks, “What if I do mind?” His smile remains as he drapes his jacket over the seat he’s taken.

“You don’t,” he challenges. Her smirk is gone, but she says nothing in her own defense, placing the book on the table and leaning forward to engage him. Peter’s smile falters slightly. She’s giving him _that _look, the one that’s understated but intense all the same, the one that makes his heart rise into his throat. He expects her to accuse him of something like stealing the Declaration of Independence. Her look alone, with the way her eyes seemed to search his soul, would be enough to make him confess.

But instead, the question that escapes her lips is something with far lower stakes. “How were your finals?” The question catches him off guard. He recoils slightly, leaning back in his seat. Something flashes in her eyes as he distances himself from her - hurt? - no, that’s wishful thinking - but then it disappears quickly. 

“Oh, um, they were fine. Just, uh…. Lost a lot of sleep over them, you know?” 

She hums in agreement, nodding, brushing a stray curl that hangs in front of her eye to behind her ear. The motion is something normal, something she probably does all the time, but Peter is simply entranced by it. Her hair, he now notices, is in her usual top bun, but some of her unruly curls are already starting to fall out, framing her face like a painting. “I warned you about being prepared, didn’t I?” She says, smiling cheekily, making Peter remember that night at the library about two weeks ago.

“Yeah, I guess you did,” Peter concedes, grinning. It’s at this point that Ned decides to barge in, carrying a tray of food that has his and Peter’s respective orders on it.

“I come bearing gifts,” Ned says in a booming, royal voice. Peter chokes on a laugh. Then Ned notices the girl across from Peter and frowns. “Who’s this?” 

Peter watches them eye each other suspiciously. The tension between them is so thick he could probably cut it with a knife, so he coughs awkwardly. They both turn to look at him. “This is Ned,” Peter says, gesturing to his friend who’s now setting the tray down on the table and taking the seat next to him. “Ned, this is…” It’s now that Peter realizes he never learned her name, and she hasn’t learned his. Was he a jerk for not knowing, or did she just not want to tell him? He told himself it was the latter. “I’m Peter, but… you never told me your name,” he admits, eyes falling to the table, to the tray with hand-cut french fries waiting to be devoured. 

“Michelle,” she announces, voice clear like it's something they should remember. Peter can't imagine ever possibly forgetting it. His eyes shoot back up to her face. He notices that her eyes are boring holes into Ned’s. The boy's mouth is agape. Then Ned turns to him, and Peter knows exactly what the look on his face is asking. _ Is it her? _

Peter nods back. _ Yes. _ Ned’s look of shock turns into a huge grin, and he turns back to the girl - Michelle. A beautiful name. He doesn’t know what makes him think of a name as “beautiful.” Sure, there are names that make Peter think, _ Wow, that’s a cool-ass name, _but “Michelle” makes him feel something different. He feels as if he has just earned her name like it’s a trophy that he can put on a shelf. Maybe that’s what makes it taste sweeter on his tongue. 

“Nice to meet you, Michelle,” Ned says, tongue-in-cheek, as if it’s some hilarious joke that the both of them are supposed to find uproariously funny. Instead, Michelle just frowned at him, utterly confused. Peter bit back an amused smile. Then she grabbed one of the fries from Ned’s order, even having the audacity to dip it in the ketchup Ned had collected. His face immediately falls. Peter’s amazed at the absolute cast-iron balls she must have to lug around all the time. 

“You too, I guess,” she says over her fry. “Thanks for the fries.” Peter chuckles and shakes his head. This girl was really something else. The thought makes him blanch. This is only the third time they’ve seen each other and Peter keeps thinking odd thoughts about her. 

“Those weren’t… meant for…” Ned tries, but Michelle quirks an eyebrow as a challenge. Ned gives up. “Enjoy,” he sighs, taking some of Peter’s own fries. He smacks Ned’s hand away, but not before he can escape with a few. 

“Those weren’t meant for you, either,” Peter says, but the smirk is audible in his voice and visible on his face. 

As if they’re old friends, they fall into easy conversation about anything and everything: finals, college as a whole, their lives at home (Peter notices her falter whenever either he or Ned asks her a direct question about that, so they both get the hint and lay off), anything that happens to come up. Michelle finishes Ned’s fries and even drinks some of Peter’s shake, at least having the decency to ask if he has mono "or something" before she sips from it. 

They go their separate ways eventually. Peter smiles and waves her goodbye when she heads off toward the library as he and Ned walk back to their residence hall. As they climb the stairs to their floor, Ned muses, “You got it bad for her, Pete."

This time, Peter can’t disagree with him. He’s an idiot, getting a crush on a girl he’s only met three times, a closed-off, sort of rude girl at that, but he cannot help himself. He is an idiot.

The image of her minimal-effort smirk is what helps him fall asleep at 1 a.m. that night. 

**4.**

So how does one deal with a crush on somebody that they see on a very irregular basis, never knowing when’s the next time they’re going to run into each other?

The correct answer: Live their life waiting for the next encounter, and still not have the foggiest idea of how to act around that somebody. Which is exactly what Peter does - going through the motions of winter break at May’s apartment, exchanging gifts, reveling in her love, and relaxing for the first time in several months - at least involuntarily, because he’s having a panic attack in the stairwell of his residence hall, which thankfully grants him some semblance of privacy, but there’s still the off chance that someone will run into him while he’s hyperventilating and his fingers are shaking enough to generate electrical energy. Because God hates him, that someone is Michelle.

He doesn’t even notice her at first, because he’s too wrapped up in himself, trying to remember the breathing technique - was it 8-7-4 or 4-7-8? His over-stressed brain can’t remember shit right now - when he feels a hand on his knee. He removes his hands from his face to see Michelle, looking at him with deep concern. It only makes his hyperventilating worse because her embarrassing him is the last thing he needs right now. But instead of making some snarky comment, Michelle looks at him earnestly and tells him, “Breathe.”

Peter nods. Michelle continues, “Breathe with me, okay? In,” she sucks in an exaggerated breath so that he can see the rise and fall of her chest, and he follows suit, “out.” He exhales shakily with her. He already feels a bit better. He takes her hand with his own. She doesn’t pull hers away. He looks down at their intertwined fingers in amazement. He squeezes Michelle’s hand to test the waters. She squeezes back. He looks up at her. She smiles reassuringly, continuing to breathe with him until his free hand stops shaking and he’s able to speak semi-coherently.

“Uh, thank… thank you,” he whispers when Michelle pulls her hand from his. He misses the warmth, the stability that it provided him. He almost reaches out to take it again but holds himself back. _ That would be weird. _

“Don’t thank me,” Michelle says, a little bit of neutrality returning to her tone. “You did that, too.” Peter feels like she isn’t giving herself enough credit, so he tells her.

“No, you - you helped me through it,” Peter says, voice breaking slightly. “Thank you.” 

Michelle waves her hand lazily as if she helps people through panic attacks for a living. Who knows? Maybe she did. “I just did what I do for myself whenever I have one,” she says nonchalantly. Peter’s eyes widen. She notices, jabbing a finger gently into his chest when she adds, “Tell anybody I told you that and your ass is grass,” her face and voice teetering on the fence between stern and affectionate. That makes Peter feel odd, using that word like it’s normal for them, but he finds that he likes it.

“You got it,” he replies quietly, smiling. They both stand. Peter's arms raise slightly, with minds of their own, like they want to embrace her, but then they fall back to his side when he takes back control of them, making a quiet slapping noise against his jean-clad legs. _ Get ahold of yourself, Parker. _

“See ya, Peter,” she says, now completely returned to her base state: unbothered. It still makes his heart flutter when he hears her say his name.

“Bye, Michelle,” Peter whispers. Her name tastes like honey when it escapes his lips. She smiles again, barely visible, then walks past him, up the stairs, slightly brushing against his shoulder with her own as she climbs. The contact sends voltage down his arm. He shivers. 

He can’t wait to see her again.

**5.**

And yet he is forced to wait anyway. Of course, when he has no means of contacting her - no number, no socials, no nothing - he can’t do anything but wait. Winter is in its death throes, temperatures beginning to rise above forty degrees Fahrenheit again. Peter is extremely thankful. He doesn’t know if he can bear another day of his hands going numb and nose running like a damn fountain. 

On one of those days, where the sun is more of a blinding nuisance than something that provides warmth - you know, its _ job - _ Peter is walking from his Applied Physics class to the dining hall, because he is goddamn starving. He forgot to eat breakfast that morning and suffered the consequences, sure that the growling of his stomach was heard by people several rows down from him in the lecture hall. He had been sufficiently embarrassed by the several looks he got, from dirty to amused, to even hearing some laugh behind him. He didn’t grace them with a look, because that would just make his already flaming cheeks turn an even deeper red. 

Peter exhales in relief when he pushes through the doors of the dining hall. It’s one of the newer buildings on campus - glass walls, everything is white like it’s some sort of cage - Peter can’t help but feel this way as he walks up to one of the walls and looks out into the street, at the cars that go by, the people on the sidewalks that occasionally look up into the glass, and see him looking right back at them. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Peter hears a voice on his left ask. He jumps about ten feet in the air. At least, he wishes he could. He turns to look at the speaker. Michelle looks back at him with a passive expression on her face. Peter smiles reflexively. Michelle frowns at his reaction. “What’re you smiling for, loser?” The name stings, if only for a moment because the way she says it betrays friendliness. Are they friends? Peter definitely hopes so. 

“I, um,” Peter says dumbly, but he can’t stop smiling. “It’s nice to see you,” he finally strings together as she watches with an amused smirk on her face, which falls when he finishes speaking. A nervous smile forms on her face, paired with a hint of pink on her cheeks. Or maybe he imagined that part. 

“You, too, I guess,” she mumbles. “Loser,” she adds as an afterthought, voice more confident, at which Peter chuckles. He missed her. It had only been a few days since he had seen her last, when she had helped him through a panic attack, but he had missed her nonetheless.

“Um, do you want to… sit down?” Peter fumbles with his words, gesturing lamely towards a circular table a few feet away, with two seats on either side. She nods. They amble over to the table, pulling the chairs out and taking seats. There’s a nervous energy in the air, at least that Peter can feel. He thinks Michelle feels it too, because her eyes keep darting around, in any direction away from his face. He’s the exact opposite: he can’t stop looking at her face, her beautiful, heart-shaped face, one that never bears any makeup, which he finds he appreciates more than one that does. It’s honest like she is. It hides nothing.

Her hair is down today, curls hanging like a canopy over her face and she brushes some of them off to the side, as he had seen her do in the ShakeShack all those weeks ago. That quirk never gets old. He loves watching her take her hair loosely between her fingers and put it behind her ear. Momentarily, he imagines placing a flower between her ear and temple - a daisy, or sunflower - then he pushes the image out of his mind. The silence between them has carried on for far too long, and Peter chooses to be the one to break it.

“So, um, how goes it?” _ Stupid. Nobody fucking says that unless it’s the 1800s, Peter. _ But it’s too late to bite back the words now, so he awaits a response. She ponders his question, biting her lip, which is way too hot to go unnoticed. _ Stop it - _

“It goes good,” she says, smirking. Then Peter is grinning back. Then they’re laughing, just like that, as if it was the easiest thing in the world for them to do together. Peter is happy in her company. He has an inkling that it’s also vice versa. He hopes so, at least.

Wiping away tears that almost spilled from their laughing fit, Peter exhales, and says, “That’s good.” Just like that, the nervous energy is crackling around and between them again. Neither of them says anything for a moment. 

“You been up to anything lately?” She asks, jarring Peter from his entranced state. 

“Yeah, you know, the usual,” he says, wishing he had something more interesting to say, but nothing comes to mind. “Homework, studying, whatever.” She nods. Peter takes it to mean, _ Same. _ “Now, I don’t know about you,” he says, “But I’m _ starving. _I have been dreaming about a BLT for the last two hours, so I’m gonna get in line.”

She laughs, not the barking one he’s heard a few times, but a sweeter sound, one that reminds him of the flapping of a hummingbird’s wings: fast, but beautiful, high-pitched and mesmerizing. Her nose scrunches up as she smiles unabashedly. Peter wants to bottle up her face in that moment and keep it stored in his mind forever because it’s adorable. “I’ll join you,” she says, her smile becoming more muted, but still there, like residue.

So they walk together up to the line and talk idly as they wait to order, shooting the shit. Peter is glad that he’s able to lose himself in conversation with Michelle because if he had to actually think hard about what he’s going to say next he would be a blushing, stammering mess, which he already is enough of in front of her. They order and get their food. When they sit down again, Peter (rather embarrassingly) spits out a chunk of tomato at one of the jokes Michelle makes. She berates him for it, saying “That’s nasty” but she’s smiling. Peter feels comfortable with her for the first time.

Eventually, when they’ve both finished their respective meals, they sit, relaxed, the silence between them no longer awkward, but easy. Then Peter gets a text from Ned on his phone:

**Ned:**

Emergency, meet at dorm NOW

Peter mumbles under his breath, “Shit,” rushing to get up and throw on his jacket. Michelle watches him with mild concern.

**Peter:**

Be right over

“What’s going on?” She asks, frowning. Peter adjusts the sleeves on his coat and grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, but he pauses when he hears her speak. It roots him to the spot, not allowing him to move until he answers her.

“Ned just texted me, said it’s important. I, uh, gotta get going.” She nods. Peter can see for sure a hint of disappointment in her features. The realization makes his heart rate skyrocket. Peter smiles, feeling a bit emboldened. “Um, do you want to maybe… study together sometime? Or do something, just the two of us?” His cheeks flare hot pink, and so do hers.

Michelle smiles too, and nods again. “I’d like that,” she says quietly, toying with a stray curl. _ She’s nervous. About you. _Peter feels like he’s won something, but he doesn’t know what just yet. All he knows is that he’s elated at her “yes.” 

So his smile grows until it threatens to envelop his entire face. He says, “Okay, um, can I get your number so I can text you?” She freezes, seeming surprised at the question. Peter is also surprised at his sudden boldness. It’s nothing like him, but for some reason, a combination of adrenaline and liquid courage is flowing through his veins. 

She wordlessly hands her phone over. He does the same. He puts his name as “Peter” at first, but then, hoping he can make her at least chuckle when she reopens his contact page later, puts “Library Guy” in the “company name” slot. 

He hands her phone back to her as she holds his out for him to take. They trade simultaneously. When she drops his phone back into his hand, he takes a peek at her contact page. She’s put in her name as “MJ.” Which isn’t “Michelle.” _ Obviously. _ But the name must mean something if she chose that over the one with which he had been referring to her. He likes the sound of it but isn’t about to start using it immediately, because he’s still not over Michelle. It might take a while for him to get used to MJ.

He smiles and looks up at her. She’s smirking like she knows something he doesn’t. Who knows. Peter can be pretty dense sometimes, so he wouldn’t be surprised if she had something over him. 

He walks past her, resting his hand on her shoulder momentarily before walking down the stairs. He takes one final look back at Michelle. He sees her looking straight at him, but the instant she realizes he’s looking at her, she snaps her head down to a book that has magically appeared in her hands. She always has a book on her, that Michelle.

**+1**

Peter reads her last text over and over as he walks to Butler Library. Though it’s not exactly verbose, he feels overjoyed that they even have a medium to talk through without relying on accidentally running into each other. He’s also still coming to terms with the fact that she told him yes.

**MJ:**

see u at 7

He’s also still getting used to “MJ.” He hopes that she won’t mind if he calls her Michelle a bit more. He likes knowing and using her real name. Of course, if she insists, he’ll call her MJ, because he can’t imagine ever saying no to her. _ Don’t get ahead of yourself. This isn’t a date. _ That thought bothers him - they had never discussed what kind of meeting it was. Peter would call it a study date, but that name itself had the word “date” in it. He doesn't want to overstep any boundaries if he accidentally refers to this encounter as such to her. 

“Study _ session” _ would probably work well for both of them. So, having resolved this mini-tangent within his mind, he swipes through the card reader and finds the spot where they had agreed to meet - the same couch where they had first encountered each other. It was kind of poetic, Peter thought. Or maybe he was just a romantic. This _ isn’t _a date, he tells himself again. 

Sure enough, he sees her sitting on the far right side of the couch, face buried in a book, as he’s seen her so many times now. She seems to sense him approaching because her head whips up from the book and her eyes find his. She snaps the book shut, placing it on the arm of the couch she’s closer to and putting her elbow over it casually. Peter waves and smiles, but he’s a bit surprised at her rapid reaction, almost like she couldn’t settle… nerves. 

He makes it to the couch, sitting down on the opposite side, the same spot he had when they had their first encounter in the library, but they’re separated by an awkward distance, one that is just a bit too far for them to be construed as hanging out, or studying together. Peter subconsciously shifts closer to her, an infinitesimal amount, but she makes no similar movement. He can’t decide whether to be hurt or understanding. She is a bit rough around the edges, after all. _ That’s rude. _

“Hey,” he tries, looking at her. She offers him a glance but nothing more, pulling a thick spiral-bound notebook out of her backpack. _ Right to the point. Got it. _ He takes out his own notebook, starting to go through it. His notes were admittedly sparse since he preferred using his laptop, but he was able to realize that relying on a computer might come back to bite him on a particularly rainy day or something, so he decided to use notebooks for at least some of his classes. 

So they begin to go through their notes in silence, respecting the golden rule of the library, but Peter wishes they could talk because one of his main hopes for this not-date was getting to know her better. He knows he should respect her wishes. He had told himself that he wouldn’t overstep any boundaries, and she’s clearly setting them for him. Little to no talking, because she’s studious, he guesses. He can work with that.

Peter is okay with sitting in silence, until, surprisingly, she’s the one who breaks it, haltingly, like she’s picking her words carefully. “Sorry if I’m being, like, cagey or whatever,” she mutters, staring daggers into her notebook as if she’s speaking to it and not Peter. The statement surprises him. He’s quick to reject the idea.

“No, you’re not, it’s okay-” he begins, but she interrupts. 

“Stop talking,” she says, gentle but firm. Then she shifts a significant distance closer to him, almost close enough for their thighs to be touching, with no warning whatsoever.

Peter’s mouth immediately goes dry. He tries to come up with some sort of rebuttal, but when he looks up at her, her gaze is strong, intense. He shuts his mouth because he knows that she’s trying to tell him to do so without using words, but he can’t stop himself from mumbling, “You don’t have to-” 

“It’s okay,” she reassures, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about it.” _ Noted. _ “So, can you quiz me?” Instantly, Peter perks up. She notices, gracing his ears with her fluttery laugh, at which his heart leaps into his throat. He’s way too easy to read, and Michelle loves books, so he must be a real page-turner for her.

“Um, okay,” Peter agrees, smiling. He takes her proffered notebook and finds a term in it that he doesn’t recognize. He asks her to define it. When she answers, he writes it down in his own notebook. He can feel her looking on in amusement. His cheeks flush slightly at the knowledge that he’s being watched. They repeat this routine, with Peter frequently writing down her answers in his notebook. To his credit, a few of them are already in there. He pays at least _ some _ attention in class, thank you very much. A couple of times, though, he feels her nudge his leg with her own, idly. It takes Peter a moment to remember how to breathe. The sensation of her almost on his shoulder should be enough to cripple him from nerves, but he stays grounded by keeping his eyes on the notebook.

A few times, he risks a glance at her after asking her about a particular term. She makes that face she does when she’s concentrating, her bottom lip being toyed with by her top teeth, but when he looks at her lips - really looks at them, not just a fleeting glance - he notices that they’re… shining. L-lip gloss? For a study date? _ Not-_date. Study _ session _ . When her eyes come up from her lap to meet his, he turns back to the notebook rapidly, trying to pretend that he wasn’t just staring at her lips like he wanted to kiss her, but he can see her smirk slightly out of the corner of his eye. _ Shit. _

Politely, she says nothing about it, and they proceed. For hours, actually. They hear the librarian’s footsteps before they see her. Their heads shoot up from Michelle’s notebook to look at the disgruntled woman. Peter sees a flash of amusement in her eyes as the older woman regards them over her spectacles. 

“You know the drill, lovebirds,” is all she says, then she turns on her heel. Peter splutters, trying to prove that she was joking, but that would mean that the librarian had won. So he and Michelle both look into their respective laps, flushing deep reds, Peter saying nothing in the wake of the woman’s words in fear of really embarrassing himself.

Silently, they pack up their stuff, pulling on their coats and walking side-by-side out of the library. Walking with her is a new experience, but her presence comforts Peter. He breathes easier, finally returning to his normal self, but the librarian’s embarrassing words ring throughout his brain. _ Not _ a date. A _ session. _

Michelle reaches out to push open the door before he can make the move himself. Peter beats himself up slightly over it, the words _ Be a gentleman _ playing on repeat now in his head.

They stand outside the doors and Peter takes a moment to observe the quiet night that’s laid out in front of them. On the campus, he and Michelle can see some stray students navigating the walls of hedges like a maze, walking with purpose to whatever destination they’re traveling to.

“I had a good time with you tonight,” Peter speaks up, feeling emboldened by their separation from other human company. She says nothing for a moment. He worries that he’s done exactly what he told himself he wouldn’t - overstep. 

“Me, too,” she says, then backpedals. “I didn’t mean that, like, _ I _ had a good time with _ me, _ I meant that I _ also _had a good time with y-”

“I got it, Michelle,” Peter says, trying to interrupt as politely as possible, but she seems thankful for her word vomit to be cut off, smiling breathlessly. She’s so damn cute that his smile hurts as he regards her with admiration. “Can we…” he begins. Her eyes move to meet his. He almost can’t finish his thought, but he powers through. “Can we do something like this again?”

He watches her smirk slightly, her trademark look returning to her face. Peter takes a step towards her, and they were already decently close to each other, so now their faces are only separated by a few inches of cold air. Surprisingly, she doesn’t pull away, as he half-expected her to. He watches her as she glances down at his lips, and in turn, he looks down at hers, the ones that wear gloss, for _ him, _ he thinks. Also, as they stand face-to-face, Peter realizes that she’s got at least an inch on him. The thought embarrasses him momentarily, but she isn’t mocking him for his vertically-challenged state. He’s average height. He _ is. _

“I’d like that,” she says, parroting herself from yesterday in the dining hall. Peter can’t stop his smile from growing. He stops himself from asking if this meeting will be a date because that would make him an absolute cornball (but if he _ thinks _ about it, is he a cornball anyway?). _ Focus, Pete. There is a beautiful girl looking at your lips. What are you going to do about it? _

“Um,” Peter says dumbly. “Can I…?” he asks, glancing down at her lips, hoping that she gets the meaning behind his incomplete question. She smirks again before she leans down and kisses him. Her lips taste like cocoa. Peter finds himself gripping the collar of her jacket as he leans forward, upwards, to deepen it. The pressure of their lips against each other is feather-soft. Peter can feel electricity shooting up and down every fiber of his being as he’s locked in this kiss with her.

He feels the vague sensation of her hands ghosting over his waist before they settle on his back. He smiles against her sweet lips, surprised at the feeling of her tongue flicking uncertainly against his own. _ Wow. _

Too soon, it’s over, Michelle pulling away a few inches, a bit out of breath and flushed (from the cold or their kiss, he doesn’t know, but he definitely hopes it’s the latter). 

“Wow,” Peter says, knowing he sounds like an idiot. But again, she doesn't mock him. She smiles faintly and her hands fall from his waist back to her sides. Peter lets go of her jacket. 

“I’ll text you the plan,” she says, taking a step away from him. He grins and salutes, like a soldier, which makes her snort. “Nerd.”

“See ya…” he replies, pausing. “MJ,” he finishes confidently, trying out the nickname on his lips. It’s almost like a pet name. Peter likes pet names, so this might actually work for him. Her eyes widen slightly after he says it, but then her face settles into an easy smile. He ignores the affectionate tone that overtook her voice when she called him “nerd” because if he focuses too hard on it, he’s definitely going to melt. She gives him the same two-finger salute back and turns on her heel to walk into the night. After she turns a corner in the maze of hedges, he turns around and starts walking the beaten path to his dorm, realizing something when he pushes open the door to see Ned’s expectant face, waiting for a play-by-play of his night:

He's completely fucked.

At least he can find it within himself to smile at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this because it was a delight even for me to write. Like I said in the beginning notes, I could use some suggestions for possible future fics, so please, if you have any ideas, leave them in a comment! Oh, and kudos. I love both. Once again, thank you guys so much. I encourage you to read my other Spideychelle fics! People like them, for some reason. Anyway, I love you guys. Until the next fic!


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